Swordsmaster

By William Mangieri

The sorcerer Svaerd destroyed the Aurae Council in his quest to take the power of Taernfeld for himself. He almost succeeded in his designs, but was defeated by the council's lone survivor. Trapped within a haeld-sword, he plots his escape.
For four-hundred years, magic has been outlawed by Tor-Haval. Sandrik is the first bright-eye to be seen in Caladon in living memory, and he doesn’t want anyone to think of him as they did the ominous Aurae of legend, so he keeps his special abilities hidden. But there is more to Sandrik than even he knows. Now he is about to enter the ancient ruins of Taernfeld to be declared a man, but another fate awaits him. Will he escape it?

The hawk was perched above the entrance, waiting for him.
Sandrik turned the corner into a narrow, white-walled, tunnel. The outer buildings rose straight up from the cliff wall, as though Taernfeld and its buildings had been sculpted from the limestone of the mountain itself. The road emerged from the tunnel into a walled courtyard before an archway that was some forty feet in from the ramp; it may have supported a gate at one time but, somewhere in the ages, those gates had gone to dust or plunder. All that remained in their place was a vague shimmer that, if not for its bluish tint, Sandrik might have thought was a trick of the sunlight beyond the archway, where Mikael and the first four boys faced Gaemel at a cross street. The old seer hunched over his staff in a hooded white robe, his scraggly white beard hanging to below his waist, his free hand beckoning the boy in front of Sandrik to join them, which he did calmly, as though there was nothing unusual in the archway. The shimmer seemed to open around him, much as when passing through the beaded curtain in old Qaeran’s hut. Gaemel pounded his staff on the street three times, and the sound echoed from the walls around them, like dozens of hands clapping. The boy emerged into the sunlight beyond the archway and joined the others, while Gaemel gestured to Sandrik to come forward.
Sandrik stepped toward the archway, but as he reached it, he hesitated. He felt a cold breeze passing through the tunnel from Taernfeld, and in the susurrations of air against stone, he heard whispers. He could not make out what they were saying, but they reminded him of his disturbing, doomed dreams, and his sense of foreboding intensified.
Is this a test? Part of the ritual? he wondered.
He felt fearful, and yet foolish at the same time. Gaemel continued to beckon him forth, and Mikael and the other boys stood there waiting, so he closed his eyes and stepped through the gateway. He felt a sharp prickling all over, and his hair rose as it did when lightning was about to strike. An image came into his mind unbidden, of a circle of white buildings burning in the night, and a white-robed figure lying in a pool of blood. The whispers solidified into one word:
“ABOMINATION!”
Then he heard the triple crack of Gaemel’s staff on the street and its echoes; the whispers ceased abruptly, and he opened his eyes in the bright sunshine. The others appeared unaware of what Sandrik had seen and heard, and Gaemel had already turned away and was leading the initiates further into Taernfeld. Sandrik looked back over his shoulder, but, other than that blue shimmer, there was nothing unusual in the archway. It was just the sun and shadows and wind, and his imagination and fears playing tricks on him. He shook it off and followed the others,
And thus began the fulfillment of his fate...

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Mangieri
• Release date: Sep 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463960134

William Mangieri

William Mangieri is a karaoke junkie, former theater student, and recovered wargamer who spends as much time wondering "what if?" as "why not?". He writes from Texas, where he and his family live at the mercy of the ghost of a nine-pound westie.William writes mostly speculative fiction (that’s science fiction, fantasy and horror), although he also has a detective series with a soft sci-fi element (Detective Jimmy Delaney.) He completed writing his first novel (Swordsmaster) in 2019; prior to this, he has honed his skills on short fiction. He has been published in Daily Science Fiction and The Anarchist, and six of his stories have earned Honorable Mentions in the Writers of the Future contest.

Book preview

Svaerd

Tormundt, self-proclaimed king of the blonde, blue-eyed Havals, stood at the top of the outer wall of Taernfeld. His tawny, mountain-cat cloak billowed, flapping noisily in the winds that seemed a constant ever since he had brought his men onto the high slopes of Calhorn. The torchlight sputtered, casting an inconsistent orange glow that caught on the royal green, red, and gold coat of arms, the flaming dragon stamped and enameled onto his steel breast plate. He would have cursed the wind, but he was more concerned the black clouds that had been churning overhead all day had not yet let loose of the rain they threatened. A deluge might hold back the Sletten hordes who sought to take the ancient stronghold.

Beside him, in plain white robes that matched the starkness of the ancient refuge, the Etaeren sorcerer Craen stood, silently waiting, his shoulder-length hair, dark beyond black, seemed to crackle with power as it writhed in the wind. Craen was an Aurae, as had been all the wielders of aerh, and even though his glowing, golden eyes were closed in concentration, Tormundt could feel the disturbing power that was focused there. He had a particular distaste for this imperious sorcerer, but he must needs have some of that Etaeren magic on his side to combat Slette’s sorcerer Svaerd. And, seeing as Svaerd’s treachery had killed all others of the Aurae Council, Craen was his only option.

Tormundt spared Craen a sidelong glance.

With as many storm clouds as there are, you cannot use the rain to slow them? Tormundt asked.

Craen did not open his eyes. King Tormundt thought the arrogant sorcerer was ignoring him, until Craen spoke.

If you wish victory against the Sletten, I must preserve the aerh until the optimal time.

King Tormundt fingered his beard with a battle-scarred hand as he stared down the cliff’s sheer, eight-hundred-foot face. The ground below was well lit by the torches of the Sletten invaders. The first cluster of their warriors was already halfway up the ramp that zigzagged across the face of the stark limestone cliff – the only path to Taernfeld. Their iron-shod boots scraped across the stone as they advanced steadily, their shields raised over their heads to form a turtle for protection. But that would only be effective against archers; it was time to put an end to their climb.

Now! Tormundt shouted.

Four of his men put their shoulders to a massive tree trunk and shoved it off the edge of the wall. It scraped along the cliff face as it fell, but it stayed true and landed a direct hit on the turtle. Tormundt expected to hear the shattering and clatter of their shields as it struck, but instead there was a glimmer from the shields, and the tree bounced away from them with a dull thud. It completed its passage downward, to crash at the foot of the cliff. The turtle continued up the path, seemingly unaffected. A cluster of torches at the base of the ramp exposed a second turtle as it formed and began its climb.

Stone them! Tormundt shouted.

His men positioned the wooden guides they had built into place and began pushing boulders over the edge toward the advancing Sletten. The first couple crashed onto the path in front of the turtle before his men were able to focus a torrent of stones directly on it. But Tormundt watched as these, too bounced off the Sletten’s glimmering shields.

What deviltry is this? Tormundt demanded of Craen.

The sorcerer opened his eyes–his brilliant, golden eyes–but he did not bother to watch the Slette advance. Instead, he focused his unnatural gaze on King Tormundt, who stared back, unwilling to let the Etaeren know just how those eyes disturbed him.

He draws aerh from this place to strengthen their shields. The closer he comes to the source, the stronger he will become, Craen said.

If that is so, then we should have met them down in the foothills as I said–not up here.

No. We were destined to meet here, at this reservoir of power. Craen spoke patiently, as if to a child. You will not be able to stop him, but you must continue to bombard them as though you did not know this.

The color rose in Tormundt’s face, and despite the chill wind, he felt dangerously hot.

Mage! You said this place of yours was impervious, yet their sorcerer leads them past our defenses. Soon they will be within the walls!

Anyone who knew their king’s temper would have recognized the signs, but the Etaeren sorcerer remained calm, even patronizing in his response.

Yes, Svaerd bends all his will to this place, and he will not be denied. It must be so.

"You want them to gain entry? Tormundt asked incredulously. Why did you not say so? We can accomplish that easily, and with far less loss of life."

No! You must hold back their forces, or all will be lost. Once they enter the gate, you must allow only Svaerd to pass–he will be eager to gain the nexus of its power, to leach even more of its aerh for his purposes. I will deal with him there.

Tormundt glared after Craen as the Etaeren descended the steps from the wall and walked away along Taernfeld’s narrow, gleaming-white streets toward the fortress’ center.

Damn the arrogance of all sorcerers! he muttered to himself, then shouted to his men, Keep the Sletten at bay!

Once the first turtle reached the final turn in the ramp, they had a decent vantage of Taernfeld’s outer wall. They lowered their shields, and now Tormundt could see the renegade sorcerer Svaerd standing imperiously in their midst. He could have been Craen’s twin, albeit younger, his long black hair flowed about his clean-shaven, Etaeren face, and framed another pair of those accursed golden eyes. Tormundt grabbed a spear from one of his warriors, intending to launch it at Svaerd, but he had to duck for cover as the Sletten archers let loose a rain of arrows, and some of his unluckier men at the wall’s edge fell screaming to their death below. The glimmer that surrounded their foes seemed even brighter now than when Tormundt had first observed it, and when the Havals fired back, their arrows were diverted by that same sorcery and clattered harmlessly to the stone.

Svaerd uses the power of this place to protect the Sletten. Tormundt thought. Why cannot that treacherous Craen do the same for us? A curse on all Etaeren!

And without his own magic to counter Svaerd, there was no profit in facing off against the Slette from atop the wall.

Archers–stand back from the wall and remain vigilant. The rest of you, to the gate!

Tormundt hoped his archers would have some effect on individual Sletten if any tried to climb over the wall, but that depended on Svaerd keeping his protection with the main force against the gate itself. Fortunately, Svaerd obliged, and once the Sletten at the top of the ramp were no longer being targeted, they marched along the path to where it turned sharply into the cliff’s bleached, limestone face and through the passage that led to Taernfeld’s great iron gate. A gate that Craen had placed wards on, and which he had assured Tormundt would suit their needs.

They seemed to suit Svaerd’s, instead. After the Slette made a half-hearted attempt to force the gate open, Svaerd broke the wards on the gate with an almost casual wave of his hands. The steel began to swing inwards from under the archway, but even as Tormundt’s men rushed forward to push the gate back, a blast of brilliant blue light toppled the gates inward. They fell on men and stone alike with a loud, metallic crash that echoed throughout Taernfeld’s narrow, high-walled streets. Svaerd entered behind the leading Sletten. A small number of the warriors followed him through, but then the gateway wards resealed themselves, and a bright blue glow filled the area under the archway. Those within that glow froze as though made of stone, and the warriors in the passage behind them were unable to push through the archway into Taernfeld. Svaerd reached out, his hands writhing in the air like two serpents as he tried to remove the barrier, but now the wards actively resisted his efforts, and he knew the cause.

Craen! he cursed.

Steel rang on steel as the Haval soldiers and their less-practiced Etaeren allies closed in on the flanks of the soldiers who had already penetrated Taernfeld. The Sletten warriors surrounded their sorcerer, fending off the defenders. One of Tormundt’s men forced his way to Svaerd, but before the soldier could strike him, the sorcerer reached forward and slapped his hand on the warrior’s chest, and Tormundt was shocked to see his man crumple to the ground. Svaerd, weaponless as he was, pressed his way further into Taernfeld. Two more of the Haval soldiers and a Sletten fell to his touch. Svaerd seemed invigorated; with each man that he took down, his golden eyes glowed brighter. He forced his way up the street, until there were no defenders between him and the central plaza.

Now Svaerd neither needed warriors, nor cared for their fate; he quickly placed wards on the path behind himself. The handful of Haval swordsmen who charged after him collided clumsily with an invisible wall. Svaerd sneered at them contemptuously, then turned and made directly for where the aerh flows intersected at Taernfeld’s center.

The battle at the gate had now turned in Haval’s favor. The limited number of Sletten who had passed through the gateway before the wards had resealed were badly outnumbered by Tormundt’s men, and with their comrades unable to break through, the Haval made short work of them. But Tormundt knew that if they did not stop Svaerd, all would be lost.

Taernfeld’s streets ran in concentric circles, with cross streets flowing out from the center like the spokes on a wheel. There was more than one path to the central plaza, and Tormundt hoped that Svaerd had not been able to block all of them. He sent a squad hurrying in each direction to search for an open path to Taernfeld’s plaza, while he waited at the archway with the remainder of his force, in case the Sletten somehow broke through again.

Svaerd made his way unimpeded through the white-walled streets, and when he arrived at Taernfeld’s main plaza, Craen was there, alone, waiting for him on the raised dais before the ancient sacrificial altar in its center.

You are forbidden to interfere with the aerh in this place, Craen said. Do not–

With a flick of Svaerd’s wrist, a flash of lightning descended from the black clouds above; Craen was silenced as it struck, and he crumpled in a heap before the younger sorcerer. Craen felt his control of the gateway wards wrenched from him. He heard the echoed sounds of shouting and steel on steel as the Sletten were once more able to pass through the archway and continue their assault.

You old fool! Svaerd crowed. I can wield this power far better than you ever could. You will not keep it from me–release it!

Craen struggled to hold back the flow of aerh as he lay helpless on the stones. The power seeped around the edges of the barrier he had erected to contain its fullness, threatening to tear it aside. He knew it could not be restrained for long.

I would not do this thing, Craen gasped.

You would not, but I will! Your days are over, Craen–this is my time! Svaerd shouted triumphantly, as his body throbbed with the raw aerh that coursed through it.

"It is your time," Craen gasped, and he loosed the last of his hold on the flow.

Now the power flooded in an unfettered torrent, accompanied by a bass humming, and Svaerd became occupied by his attempt to harness the massive waves of aerh, his eyes closed in ecstasy. Craen drew himself up slowly, painfully, and brought forth the sword he had hidden among his robes–the rune-laden, but otherwise unexceptional sword his magic and skill had labored weeks preparing–and he plunged it through Svaerd’s heart. The sorcerer opened his eyes, and at first stood calmly and seemed surreally unaffected. He looked down at the blade protruding from his chest.

"What? You think that you can kill me?" Svaerd laughed.

Another flick of his wrist sent Craen sprawling away from the dais. Then Svaerd gripped the hilt of the sword with both hands and tried to extract it, but it would not budge. A faint screeching seemed to come from the stone at his feet, and the sound progressively rose in pitch and volume. Craen got slowly to his feet and began to murmur:

Dae richt aerh folur daer draem fuer aeken.

Svaerd continued to strain to remove the sword, but it refused to be separated from him. Craen’s voice strengthened.

Dae richt aerh folur daer draem fuer aeken.

The blade began to glow; at first it was just a faint blue, but it increased in intensity along with the piercing sound.

Dae richt aerh folur daer draem fuer aeken!

What sorcery is this? Svaerd gasped.

Someone of your power should have known the hazard posed by the aerh flow. But then, you were never one to listen to your betters, were you?

I have no betters! Svaerd growled.

Dae richt aerh folur daer draem fuer aeken! Craen uttered in one, final shout.

The screeching merged with the deep droning of the flow, and the sword became a brilliant, blinding white light.

You cannot kill me! Svaerd hissed, but then his soul was sucked into the haeld-sword.

The humming stopped abruptly, the sword’s light faded, and Svaerd’s empty husk fell lifelessly to the ground. Craen stepped onto the dais and stood over Svaerd’s body for a few moments. The sounds of the fighting seemed forever away as he drew the sword from Svaerd’s corpse.

What is this? What have you done? Svaerd’s thoughts sounded clearly within Craen’s mind.

You were right, Svaerd. I could not kill you, so I have done what I can to keep you under control, Craen said.

He heard feet running up one of the streets toward him. He sheathed the sword as King Tormundt entered the courtyard with a handful of his soldiers.

Good, you have killed the devil! Tormundt said.

Craen knew that this was not so, but he remained silent.

We have driven the Sletten back from gate, and many have met their deaths below. We are victorious! Tormundt declared.

For now, thought Craen. For now.

Craen kept the sword at his side always. At times he would run his fingers along it, tracing the haelda rune that was the lynchpin of Svaerd’s prison, caressing it and murmuring spells to strengthen it. This habit was noted by those around him, but it was thought to be no more than the curious affectation of an old man. For Craen never spoke of the sword’s true nature, save to a couple of his most trusted acolytes, and these were sworn to secrecy. And with Craen having woven what enchantments he could about it, Svaerd was unable to reach out from his steel prison to influence weaker minds. Those with the gift to see such could not detect his evil within the sword, and so no one else was the wiser about Svaerd’s true fate.

The Etaeren and Haval together drove the Sletten back across the River Vedrausa to the lands from whence they had come, so for that, the alliance proved beneficial to both. But where Haval’s strength was in men and arms, of which more could be easily made, the Etaeren’s power came from the magic of their land and the flows of aerh within it, and this had been sorely depleted by its use in the war, and would not be replenished so quickly. The Haval easily assumed a position of dominance in the relationship between the two peoples, and rather than leaving the Etaeren to themselves as he had promised, Tormundt made himself king over both peoples. Etaer was renamed, and so became Caladon, and Tormundt elevated Captain Dagmar Tarlenon, one of his most trusted supporters, to be the first Earl of Caladon.

While searching Taernfeld for answers to the ancient secrets of the Etaeren’s power, Master Cornelius Grantham–a sage in Tormundt’s employ–discovered a cache of ancient scrolls and tomes, which he brought dutifully before his king.

If given sufficient time to study these, I shall be able to decipher their meaning, and their power will be yours, he told Tormundt.

Their sorcery has already been too deeply involved in our fate, and I will not have you or any others making further use of such treacherous knowledge. Tormundt said. Burn them!

The Etaeren were forbidden to reside in Taernfeld, lest they should regain their old power. For a time, the Haval kept a force on the mountain, and those who tried to return to Taernfeld were driven away, though some remained in the villages lower down on the mountain. The knowledge of that ancient place was lost to later generations, so that the ruins became less a place of life and power, and more the home of ghosts and legends.

Gnaef was an old watchtower by the River Calausa, built by the Etaeren along one of the aerh flows from Taernfeld, and the tower was made of the same aerh-amplifying limestone. Craen made of this place a sanctuary, and he used the available aerh to ward away the Haval as he continued his watch over Svaerd. He sometimes consulted with the spirits of his mother Naelga and the others of the Aurae Council, those whom Svaerd had slaughtered in his quest for dominance. Robbed by Svaerd of their own essence, they could not fully move on, but with the aerh of this world so depleted, there was little they could do to be of aid, other than to listen and remember.

Now, the quest for power is a jealous pursuit, and King Tormundt suspected that the old sorcerer was plotting to usurp his rule. One moonless night, this perceived threat from Craen was ended by the whispers of three arrows in the darkness; arrows untraceable, but undoubtedly in the Haval king’s service.

Craen had anticipated his own death; a tomb had been prepared beneath the tower, and when he fell, loyal Etaeren followed his instructions and buried him with the sword. The tomb itself was hidden, and with this last task completed, Craen’s followers then dispersed. King Tormundt stationed a garrison at the tower, but an unease would develop among any who spent as much as a single night there. After a time, the tower was instead toppled into a meaningless jumble of rock, and the old guard post of Gnaef was abandoned and left to watch only after itself.

Centuries passed, and so did generations of men. Those of the living who dared to approach the old watchtower’s ruins were filled with a sense of foreboding and an uneasiness of spirit. This they conveyed to others, and the place became an empty and haunted myth, a landmark along the Caladon Road that all but the most adventurous travelers would hurry past.

Men were kept at bay, but not nature. The river Calausa would frequently overflow its banks in the rainy season, and each incursion would carry away a bit more of the sand and stone that the Etaeren had used to seal the tunnel. Rodents and larger, weak-minded creatures were sometimes lured to take advantage of the gradually growing cave, for the wards around Svaerd were neither everlasting nor perfect, so that he was able to exert some small influence on the world outside the haeld-sword once he was left unwatched. Those unwitting creatures aided in the tunnel’s excavation, until the tomb’s steel door was exposed to the elements.

Svaerd had spent time in the study and manipulation of metals. Restrained as he was, a door was too much for him to dispose of, but not the hinges. He accelerated their rust and decay, weakened their hold on the door, and waited.

On a lightning-laden night, torrents of rain once more caused the Calausa to flood into the tunnel, and with such force against the iron door that it fell inward and cracked the lid of Craen’s stone coffin.

And then there truly was nothing left for Svaerd to do but wait.

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The Highborne

The knowledge of aerh (or magic, as some would call it) had passed far beyond the grasp of living memory, and into the domain of myths and legends. Even more recent history was only within the reach of the educated Highborne of Tarlenon Keep. While people of lesser standing dealt with the tedious challenges of their day to day lives, those of House Tarlenon had the luxury of time. They could spend a quiet afternoon buried among the myriad manuscripts in the southern tower’s library, where information prized by long dead historians was kept. If one were so inclined, they could peruse the contents, perhaps even share some of this with others, and thus return the dusty words of the past to the land of the living, lest such knowledge be forever lost.

Dragor Tarlenon was one with such wherewithal, but no such inclination, at least not at first. Dragor was a typical lad, more interested in the world outside the keep, in running and sparring with friends, than in spending time with dusty old books. When his father Neydor, the seventeenth Earl of Caladon, ordered Dragor to mind Master Grantham and make diligent and dutiful study of the tomes, he did his father’s bidding–reluctantly at first, but gradually he became fascinated by the histories, and spent long hours in the library with his elder sister Marissa, immersed in their tales. Each evening, Dragor would recount what he had learned in the keep’s dining hall, sharing with his father, his Mother Elsa, and his elder brother Arneydor, although the first-born was seven years Dragor’s senior, and too busy training toward the day when he would become earl to have any interest in such fanciful stories.

Visiting dignitaries and other guests might also find themselves entertained by Dragor’s recitations. The most significant of these occurred when Dragor was but twelve, and Torvald, King of Haval, made a rare visit to Tarlenon Keep while touring Haval’s lands about the Sea of Grenmar. The keep had become a rather uncomfortable bustle for days, what with the additional attendants and guests who had arrived ahead of the king. Dragor had chosen to hide away from strangers’ eyes, spending even more time than usual in the library with his sister Marissa. She was four years his senior, and although she would normally have had her nose buried deeper in the histories than his own was, she stood instead looking out the window at the sea, frowning. The late spring rain had fallen for three days straight, and was not improving her mood.

I do not see how Arneydor can simply allow others to decide whom he will marry. I would never do that.

Accompanying King Torvald would be his cousins, Lord Brennan and Lord Brennan’s sister Lady Torhilde, and she was being suggested as a suitable bride for their older brother, a match to strengthen the bonds between Tor-Haval and the Earldom of Caladon.

Marissa had reached her majority by this time, but rather than wearing her waist-length blonde hair in the traditional maiden’s braid, she had it frizzed out, which gave her a somewhat wild and unkempt appearance. Dragor knew she wore it this way in contradiction of their parents’ wish that she become more appealing to suitors; Marissa hoped instead to enhance the whispers that she might not be fully in her right mind, in case anyone was beginning to think of proposing an unwelcome match for her.

Sometimes, we all must needs do our duty. But I do not believe that you need worry–husbands are not likely to be knocking down ‘Mad Marissa’s’ door, Dragor said.

And they had best not, she huffed.

King Torvald was expected to arrive near sunset, and duty had also demanded that the earl’s entire family be on hand to greet the king, as were the other Highborne of Caladon Earldom who had come to the keep to attend the king’s visit: the Lords and Ladies Brent of Brentwood, Fortinder of Eastlake, Gainsfeld of Vedraford, Marston of Fennel, and Sheedmaister of Bromfeld were all on hand to repledge their fealty to the throne. Most awaited the king’s arrival inside the keep due to the inclement weather, although the lords themselves accompanied Earl Neydor and his heir to the docks as the king’s ship approached the city’s harbor.

Dragor and the rest waited in the keep’s Grand Hall, so that it was filled when the king himself arrived for his welcoming feast. Torvald was barely into his twenty-second year, and had come to the throne nearly five years before, due to the untimely passing of his father Torulan. The former king had still been hale and hearty when he had succumbed to a sudden, unexplained illness. Rumors swirled about that his unnatural death had been brought about by poison. Many felt that Haval had been fortunate to have two heirs, so that despite the loss of Torulan’s elder son and heir Tordun a year earlier to a festering battle-wound, Torvald was still available to assume the throne and continue the four-century rule of Tor-Haval.

The young king was of typical Haval appearance–blue-eyed, stocky and muscular, with a full yellow beard that framed his face and met the golden hair that fell in waves to his shoulders. Young Dragor wished he himself looked more like the king, or like his own father and brother for that matter, who were also classically Haval. Instead, he had the dark brown hair of his mother, the Countess Elise, as well as the more slender build that was typical of her Allemande homeland. Being blonde brought with it a certain sense of prestige among the Highborne in the lands controlled by Haval, and Dragor always felt as though he had come into the world with more disadvantage than merely being the younger son.

Queen Celine had accompanied King Torvald on this visit. Celine was of the House of Anjus, but although she also was Alleman like Dragor’s mother, she looked nothing like Countess Elise. Her hair was such a bright gold–done up in a traditional Haval braid–that only her hazel eyes seemed outside the Haval norm. She had been intended to be Prince Tordun’s bride, and so the duty of that alliance had passed to Torvald on his brother’s death.

They would not have picked her if she were not blonde, thought Dragor.

It was most likely true; her near-Haval appearance had surely made the arrangement more palatable to the purists at court. You could not have a woman who was blatantly Alleman become Queen of Haval now, could you?

The feast progressed along quite amiably, with all the niceties observed. Torhilde Brennan was seated side by side with Arneydor Tarlenon; all seemed to agree the two made a fine couple, even if they did not yet know each other. Dinner conversation included discussion of the Jarrun problem–Haval traditionalists who romanticized the virtue of the old ways that the Haval had followed when they were still raiders. The Jarrun opposed the culture of hereditary nobility that Tor-Haval had adopted from the Alleman as they had absorbed both their lands and their customs. Many of the Jarrun had reverted to the ways of their ancestors, becoming raiders who were a scourge to the civilized empire that Tor-Haval was attempting to build. They had been growing more troublesome of late.

The brigands should be cut down, Lord Brennan said.

Or perhaps just driven over the border into Slette, where they belong, Lord Gainsfeld replied.

Lord Gainsfeld had been a formidable warrior in his day, but his white hair and beard said that he himself was not likely to be driving the Jarrun anywhere.

Yes, they would fit in better there, Lord Marston agreed. He had somewhat less white in his hair than Lord Gainsfeld, and was more likely to try to deal with the Jarrun problem, but still…

Dragor had read enough of the histories to know that Haval and Slette had shared similar raider cultures before the creation of the royal dynasty that was Tor-Haval. The Jarrun probably would be more at home if they were sent to Slette. They would be certainly less of a problem here.

Despite his seat at the table of honor as a member of the welcoming earl’s family, his being yet a child had given Dragor the protection of near invisibility. The feasters seemed unaware of him as they all dined noisily on the dinner the folk of Tarlenon Keep had prepared in the king’s honor. That was, until Earl Neydor Tarlenon looked his young son squarely in the eye.

And now, Dragor, what fascinating things have you learned today?

Dragor glanced unsurely toward the intimidating King Torvald, his equally blonde and far too serious cousin Lord Brennan, and the other richly appointed courtiers who had arrived with the king, some of whom were already shifting their attention to him. The dragon banner of Tor-Haval had been placed slightly above House Tarlenon’s falcon, and Dragor felt the dragon’s eyes on him also; this added to the uncomfortable sense that his home was no longer a place of sanctuary.

I do not think that King Torvald would find it very interesting, Father, Dragor said.

Of course we would, King Torvald said as he speared a bit of mutton on a two-pronged fork.